Killer

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “What’d you treat him for?”

  I shook my head.

  She said, “I hope it wasn’t for his antisocial tendencies. If so, it didn’t work, Doctor. He’s a serious gangster, climbed higher in the gang after his father died. In Pelican Bay. Know anything about that place?”

  “Worst of the worst.”

  “It’s probably where Effo will end up one day, Doctor. Who knows, he might even inherit Poppy’s cell.”

  Heat had come into her voice. Her left wrist rolled up and down a chunky thigh. Working gang detail is an infinite process with infrequent satisfaction.

  Rivera turned to Milo. “Big-time killer, now he’s a good citizen, go figure.”

  I said, “You’re North Hollywood. Did Effo change his turf from East L.A.?”

  Milo said, “He’s got a business in North Hollywood.”

  “Alleged business,” said Rivera. “Car stereo place. Where bangers go for boom. We think it’s a front. You haven’t seen him in a long time?”

  “He was my patient when he was a teenager.”

  “He’s twenty-seven, now,” she said. “So, ten years?”

  “Give or take.”

  “No contact since then? Even on the phone?”

  I said, “I have no ongoing relationship with him or anyone else in the gang.”

  “Well, looks like Effo thinks you have a relationship. If he didn’t, Doctor, you wouldn’t be part of this conversation. Because Effo’s not shy about homicide. Like I said, he’s suspected in five and I’m sure there’s a whole bunch of stuff we don’t know about.”

  “In those five was he the triggerman or a contractor?”

  “Does it matter, Doctor? The point is when he decides people are going to die, they tend to do just that. We’ve been trying to nail him for a long time. He’s integral to the organization and taking him down will be a big deal. Unfortunately, because of your situation we have to treat him like he’s a good person and that means backing off. Until we resolve your situation.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Next time I’ll try to be saved by Batman or the Green Lantern.”

  She blinked.

  Milo hid a smile behind a hand.

  I said, “How are we going to resolve my situation?”

  Rivera said, “By wiping the slate clean of Dr. Sykes.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Milo said, “You do nothing, Alex. We’re here to protect and serve.”

  Rivera said, “This—us notifying you—is part of the protecting. But you don’t talk to anyone about this, okay? Specifically, you don’t contact Efren Casagrande.”

  I smiled. “Not even to maintain clinical support?”

  Milo said, “His ego’s doing just fine. Charming little weasel that he is.”

  Rivera said, “Doctor, you need to take this seriously: Everything stays buttoned up until Sykes is taken care of. Speaking of which, you need to educate us: Is she crazy, or what?”

  I summed up my impressions.

  “I’m hearing cold bitch rather than outright loony-tuney,” said Rivera.

  I had a grab bag of diagnostic labels to dip into. Said, “Fair enough.”

  “She one of those compulsives, Doctor? One try fails, she doesn’t give up?”

  I said, “When did she solicit Guzman?”

  Milo said, “Four days ago.”

  “Six days after she showed up here.”

  He nodded.

  Rivera was puzzled by the exchange.

  Milo said, “Woman takes her time, Millie. Premeditation, not impulse.”

  She said, “Smart criminals. Hate ’em.”

  I said, “She’s about organization and planning, so sure, she could persevere. What’s the plan?”

  Milo said, “Far as Sykes knows—far as Ramon Guzman’s telling her—the hit’s on and ready to go. We’re gonna work with that.”

  “Guzman’s cooperating.”

  Rivera said, “Guzman, there’s another winner. Sociopath like Effo but minus fifty IQ points. Yes, Doctor, he’s cooperating but only because he has no choice. We can bust him for conspiracy anytime we choose but we’re holding off because his arrest could tip off Sykes and leave her untouchable—the word of a lowlife against a rich doctor. Instead, we had Effo bring Guzman to a meeting and then we popped in. At which time Effo informed Guzman he needed to play nice.”

  She ground her teeth. The fist on her thigh gathered fabric and maybe some skin. “Not that we routinely take the word of people like your prize patient. But we needed Guzman totally submissive and Effo had him over-the-top terrified. Genuine fear, Ramon’s too stupid to put on a convincing performance. But stupid can cause problems so everything needs to be kept strictly under wraps.”

  I said, “After Sykes threatened me, I warned Judge Maestro.”

  Rivera frowned. “You did that because …”

  “She wrote the order dismissing Connie Sykes’s suit. I figured she might be in jeopardy.”

  “You informed her, but not the police.”

  “It didn’t seem to reach the level of—”

  “It reached a level where you warned a judge.”

  “I played it as I saw it, Detective.”

  “And the judge’s response was …”

  “I spoke to her bailiff. He said he’d handle it.”

  “Well,” said Rivera, “right now you’re the prime target so let’s take care of your situation and everyone else will benefit.”

  I said, “Effo wires up, meets with Sykes, you’re listening in?”

  Rivera slashed air with one hand. “Effo meets with no one. His participation is officially over, no way we’ll get that cozy with him, last thing we need is he goes to trial and his lawyer tries to cash in big-time brownie points for heroic law enforcement cooperation.”

  She scooted forward on her chair. “You need to be clear about this, Doctor: Your situation has created an inconvenience for us but no matter what he’s done for you, we will get him.”

  Milo said, “Yeah, we’re stinging her, but using our own. I borrowed Raul Biro from Hollywood.”

  I said, “Raul doesn’t come across gangster.”

  “Give him credit, Alex. He’s quick on his feet and he can play cold-blooded.”

  “When’s it happening?”

  Rivera said, “When we’re ready.”

  “I want to be there.”

  Rivera laughed.

  Milo didn’t.

  She said, “El Tee?”

  I said, “This woman tried to kill me. I want to watch her go down.”

  Milo said, “Nice to know you’ve got the revenge gene like the rest of us.”

  Rivera said, “Well, I need to talk to my lieutenant.”

  “Bill White’s a good man, Millie. I’ll handle it.”

  “Fine, your responsibility.” She stood. “Nice meeting you, Doctor. Try to stay healthy.”

  Milo got up, as well, but he left the attaché case on the floor and he didn’t follow Rivera.

  She stopped. “Something else, El Tee?”

  “Gonna stick around a bit. Educate the doctor a little more.”

  “Ah … good luck with that.”

  We walked Rivera out, remained on the terrace, watched as she sped away.

  Milo said, “You’re gonna have to chauffeur me back to the station.”

  “After you educate me?”

  He laughed. “Like Millie said, good luck.”

  I said, “You think I screwed up by not reporting it?”

  “My protective instincts say yeah, it’s more of your usual denial. But the truth is, she really didn’t threaten you, she just acted nasty. So there’s nothing I could’ve done other than to warn her away. And I don’t know her well enough to predict how that would turn out.”

  “I thought about telling you, figured if you did step in and she complained it could get sticky department-wise.”

  “No doubt.” He smiled. “What a pal.”

  “So what’s Rivera’s pro
blem? I got on her bad side without really trying.”

  “It ain’t you, Alex. She’s going through a rough patch.”

  “Gang work burnout?”

  “Probably that, too,” he said. “But the main thing is an ugly divorce. Her ex is an arson D from Van Nuys. Not a bad guy but he and Millie are going at it. One kid and they’re ripping at each other. So Millie’s not too high on men, nowadays.”

  “She told you about it?”

  “I have my sources.”

  Returning to the house, he headed for the kitchen.

  Two roast-beef-and-coleslaw sandwiches and half a pint of milk later, he said, “How you doing with it?”

  “With what?” Stupidest answer in the world but I couldn’t find anything else to say.

  “With the pollen count—what do you think?”

  I shrugged.

  He washed his dish and his glass, returned to the table. “You were pretty much Dr. Sphinx with ol’ Millie and I’m sure you had your reasons. But now it’s just us Boy Scouts, so feel free to emote.”

  “I’m all right.”

  He let that ride. Returned to the fridge and scrounged for dessert.

  I repeated that to myself: I’m all right. Punishment for the lie arrived a split second later in the form of a wave of nausea that surged below my sternum and scuttled up to my gullet. My breathing caught, my vision fogged, nausea switched to vertigo, and I braced myself with two hands on the table.

  That didn’t work, so lowering my head to my arms I closed my eyes, worked at slowing my breathing.

  I heard Milo say, “Alex?” As if from far, far away.

  My skin turned clammy. My pulse clanged in my ears. My head felt like a chunk of pig iron, barely secured by a rubber spine.

  I needed to settle down before the next challenge: updating Robin.

  The fridge closed. Heavy footsteps grew louder. I got my pulse down to a fast trot but the vertigo lingered and I kept my head down.

  Milo and I have been friends for a long time and all those cases we’ve worked have probably shaped the way we think because sometimes we seem to be sharing the same brain.

  This was one of those moments.

  He said, “She back there, working? You sit and relax, I’ll deal with it.”

  A big hand patted my back. Heavy footsteps diminished. The kitchen door closed softly.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Six p.m., the commodious parking lot behind Rubin Rojo’s Mexican Hacienda, Lankershim Boulevard, North Hollywood.

  Fifty-two hours after Milo and Millie Rivera’s visit. My new way of keeping time.

  Robin and I had spent most of that period in Santa Barbara, bunking down in a bed-and-breakfast off upper State Street, filling our days with enforced recreation: leisurely mountain walks, strolls along the beach, ocean kayaking off Stearns Wharf, even a spin on the carousel on Cabrillo Boulevard.

  Just another couple apparently enjoying one of the loveliest places on the globe.

  Robin had taken the news well, though she was quieter than usual. I felt guilty about the whole mess and said so and, of course, she reassured me and moved us on to the next distraction. Sleeping for more than a couple of hours in a row would’ve been nice, but I made do with minutes at a time.

  Now we were back in L.A., Robin visiting a friend in Echo Park, me sitting in the back of Milo’s unmarked, with him at the wheel, Rivera riding shotgun.

  The restaurant was one of those oversized stucco rhomboids erected decades ago when land was cheap and signage despised subtlety. A proprietor smart enough to own, not rent, had helped it avoid the wrecking ball.

  Now ninety years old, Rubin keeps the place for fun, using reasonable prices and mammoth portions to surround himself with smiling people.

  Six p.m. is midway through the restaurant’s Happy Hour. Tall, overly sweet Margaritas for four bucks. The big parking lot is three-quarters full.

  Warm L.A. evening. Gray skies, poor air quality, so what else is new?

  The cream-colored Lexus arrives first, driving through the aisles and selecting one of the remaining slots.

  Exactly fifteen minutes early.

  Six oh three: A gray Ford pickup, rear deck crammed with gardener’s tools and bags of fertilizer, one of the hubcaps missing, drives in, takes no apparent notice of the Lexus, parks well across the lot.

  In the truck’s driver’s seat sits North Hollywood plainclothes officer Gil Chavez wearing sweaty work clothes and two days of heavy stubble. Chavez turns off his engine, lights up a cigarette, and trains his camera on the cream-colored Lexus, pushing the zoom function to the max and focusing upon the square-faced middle-aged woman in the car’s driver’s seat, waiting motionless, her window open.

  Her first movement comes at six oh six. Checking her watch.

  Producing a cell phone, she texts.

  After sending her message—later ascertained to be a reminder to her office manager to obtain more Medi-Cal and Medicare billing forms—she lets out a luxuriant yawn, doesn’t bother to cover her mouth. Returning to the phone, she dials up the Internet and examines something later ascertained to be a CNN news feed. Financials.

  Later, Chavez will comment on how cool she appears.

  “Like she’s there for chiles rellenos and a couple frozen Margees.”

  A few other vehicles enter the lot.

  The woman in the Lexus watches them with shallow interest. Glances in the vanity mirror on the underside of the driver’s sun visor. Freshens her makeup.

  Chavez’s camera clicks away. Captures a smile on her lips.

  Her phone drops from view. A magazine takes its place.

  The zoom can’t pick up the title.

  Small-print index on the cover.

  The periodical is later ascertained to be Modern Pathology.

  Two more vehicles drive in. The woman watches them briefly. Yawns, again. Flicks something out of the corner of her left eye.

  Six fourteen p.m.—exactly a minute early—a ten-year-old black Camaro shows up. Stopping, it proceeds slowly, makes a loop of the parking lot, passes the Lexus. Two additional circuits are completed before the Camaro returns to where the Lexus is positioned and slips in next to the luxury sedan.

  The new arrival’s passenger window is open, offering a direct view of the Lexus’s driver’s side. But the square-faced woman’s window is closed, wanting to study the Camaro’s driver without being studied herself.

  Nevertheless, one of the four video cameras concealed in the Camaro’s black tuck-and-roll kick in. Captures a close-up of mildly tinted glass.

  The Camaro’s driver leans toward his open window. A young, slim, handsome Hispanic man with pronounced cheekbones and inquisitive dark eyes, he wears a long-sleeved, plaid Pendleton shirt buttoned to the neck, saggy khakis, and white Nikes. A blue bandanna sheaths his freshly skinned head. Three hours ago, Detective Raul Biro sported a head of thick black hair so luxuriant you could mistake it for a toupée. Now, freshly cholo-buzzed by his partner, Petra Connor, with some makeup added to blend his sun-deprived scalp with the rest of his coppery dermis, he squints at the Lexus.

  Expertly applied temporary tattoos litter the top of Biro’s hands and meander up his neck. The perfect blue-black hue of prison ink, also provided by Petra, a trained artist prior to becoming a cop.

  Left side of the neck: a beautifully drawn blossoming rose in the center of an orange crucifix.

  A teardrop under the left eye.

  A crudely drawn black hand.

  That much ink showing in such limited dermal terrain implies an entire body given over to adornment.

  No one expects Biro to have to strip down, exposing the illusion.

  He continues staring at the Lexus’s driver’s window. As if responding to his energy, the glass slides down and the square-faced woman reveals herself.

  Expressionless, she studies Biro.

  He returns the favor.

  Finally, she says, “Juan?”

  Biro says,
“George. Don play games, lady.”

  The square face tightens, then brightens. Eyelashes bat. “Good to meet you, George. I’m Mary.”

  Different voice than I’d heard in my office. Connie Sykes is playing girly-girly with hammy abandon, laying on a Southern Belle drawl that would be comical if I was able to tolerate funny.

  Neither Milo nor Millie Rivera has ever heard her real voice. They don’t react.

  My stomach crawls.

  She’s enjoying this.

  Biro: “Anyone see you?” His voice is different, too. Lower-pitched, East L.A. singsongy, imprecise around the edges.

  A refined man of perfect diction slumming for a one-woman audience.

  Connie Sykes says, “Of course not.” Of cowass not.

  “You sure.”

  “I am, George.”

  Biro says nothing.

  “Cross my heart, George. So where do we do this?”

  No immediate answer. Biro looks around the parking lot. “Okay, get in.”

  “To your car?”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “Well … I suppose not.”

  “So do it.”

  Grimacing but bouncing back with a “Shuah, George,” Connie Sykes flips her wavy hair.

  The first feminine gesture I’d ever seen her display. Absurd and incongruous. Like a tutu on a rhino.

  “George” couldn’t care less about her sex appeal and Connie senses that and frowns again, as she gets out of the Lexus.

  Walking to the back of the black Camaro, she sidles around, takes the passenger handle, finds it locked.

  Biro unlocks it with a click. No doubt about who’s in charge.

  Connie gets in. Fools with her wavy hair. Tries for a warm, flirty smile, comes up with a weirdly repellent twist of freshly painted lips.

  Or maybe I’m being too harsh. She does have an X chromosome.

  Millie Rivera says, “Creepy bitch.”

  Biro lights up a cigarette.

  Sykes barks a pretend cough. “That’s not good for you, George.”

  Biro blows smoke rings. “Show me the money, lady.”

  Sykes pats her bag. Same way she’d implied a gun while sitting on my leather couch. “The money’s all here, George.”

  “How much?”

  “What we agreed on.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Connie opens the bag, pulls out a wad of bills.